


Do You Know Jack?

by SweetSteph



Category: Jackbox Games, Trivia Murder Party (Video Game), You Don't Know Jack (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Non Binary Cookie, Silly, Spooky, Trivia Murder Party - Freeform, You Don't Know Jack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSteph/pseuds/SweetSteph
Summary: Cookie Masterson meets the Trivia Murder Party host REDACTED. That's it, that's the story. It's silly and spoopy.
Relationships: None
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Do You Know Jack?

Cookie reached his pale hand out and stroked under Poopsie’s chin. Poopsie lifted her dark head to give access to her soft neck. A deep purr rumbled from her. Cookie reflexively started talking in a high pitched baby voice. 

“Whose my wittle poopsie? My black purry turdy? My pickly wickly hessghsiddhdhlkdjslkdj-”

There was a rapid knock...somewhere. Cookie opened his tired blue eyes. Under the right circumstances, say, with extremely specific coffee and at exactly noon when the sun is on his face, his eyes could cut glass. He was told in high school “You’re really ugly, except for your eyes.” Which he could never figure out how to feel about. They even put it in his senior class yearbook. He still framed it over his bathroom mirror. With age and stress, his eyes often turn more grey. His lack of hair didn’t help. He began balding at 12 years old, just as he entered puberty and began looking at girls. And boys. And some very voluptuous trees. 

He picked the crust out of his grey eyes and looked around. Instead of his dark, messy bedroom with posters of celebrities, he was in a very plush hotel room. The room was red and gold, giving off a faint art deco vibe. Cookie squinted. He didn’t remember booking a hotel. Especially not one so posh. On his paycheck?! He had to burn interns just to stay warm in the bitter Chicago winter!

Before his thoughts continued, the knock returned. This time the knock was more angry. “HOUSEKEEPING!!” Cookie threw the golden silk sheets off. He was surprisingly fully clothed in an old band t-shirt and bootcut jeans. Hey, you never know. Bootcut could come back in style! “I’m coming! STOP KNOCKING! Jesus H Tapdancing CHRIST-” He opened the door. The sight confused him enough to render the verbose man speechless. 

In front of him was perhaps the tallest man he had ever seen in his life. The door frame only showed his chest downward. Was he 7 feet tall? He had tattoo sleeves up and down his arms. Screaming faces frozen in agony. Some kittens cuddling Bea Arthur. Also a tattoo of just the word “Mom” 37 times. Cookie peeked his bald head under the door frame to see what this mysterious man’s face looked like. It was hollow, and greyish white. His black-brown eyes were shadowed, and almost hidden under an eyebrow piercing. He looked like a statue, he couldn’t even see him breathing. 

Also he was wearing a black and purple lolita maid outfit. That struck him as a little odd, as that didn’t seem like it would be proper dress code for the staff of such an elegant place. Before he could open his mouth to voice his confusion, the tall man shoved a smelly cloth at his face. 

“Just taking out the trash”. The voice said. 

Cookie’s eyes opened again. This time he was face down on a green and gold carpet in a hallway. 

Weirder, it was right outside his hotel room. After a few mumbles, Cookie stood up, his sharp voice echoing down the hall. “WHAT the EVERLOVING hell?! I was sleeping and- and-....Hello?”

The hall was dark and empty. 

“H-Hello?” don’t be scared, cookie, don’t be scared cookie, don’t be-

“Sorry, sometimes I forget that this is also my murder palace. I was gonna knock you out before but, I mean, you looked so peaceful so I let you sleep. If you survive this, please rate your stay on yelp!” The deep voice was so filtered Cookie had a hard time understanding the words. 

“Wait, Survive? I...What is going on? Hey, Can you hear me? I demand to know what in the everloving FU-”

“Ah Ah Ah! No cursing please! There could be children listening! I think you deserve a little….discipline!”

Cookie felt his short little body lift up from the floor. He waved his arms and legs around frantically as his body was pulled through the hall as though by magic. Cold sweat fell into his eyes, stinging them. He was scared to close them, in case he could see for a moment what was behind this black magic he was seeing. 

A door in front of him was kicked open by something invisible, and Cookie’s skinny frame was thrown bodily onto the moldy black carpet. 

In front of him was an old, rusty typewriter. It was illuminated even with no lightsource. There was a splintering old chair in front of it. Cookie, in order to hide the fact his heart was beating in his ears, yelled at a defiantly high pitch. “A typewriter? What, you’re too good for a LAPTOP?! Is it the 20s? Do you send FAXES down the NILE on PAPYRUS?!” 

Lightning struck outside, illuminating corpses festering in the corner. “SHUT. UP.” The deep voice commanded. Reflexively, Cookie sat down on the chair, getting several splinters up his bottom. “Yes sir!” he squeaked. 

“Thank you! Geez, I just wanna play some games and everyone treats me like I’m the devil! You kill a few dozen people a week and it’s just...it’s not faaaair!” The deep voice whined. Then the voice coughed. “Anyway, I wanna see how good you type. I cannot write a letter right now, as I’m hosting a costume party in the ballroom. I just CAN’T multitask to save my life. So! I need you to type everything I say into that little typewriter.”

Immediately Cookie began typing some crude obscenities, including where this deep voiced person could perhaps store a box of rusty nails. 

“First of all, I tried that last week and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. Second of all,-” His voice became chilling and hissed. As though he was speaking through his teeth. “Are you aware that I can see everything you do? Every breath you take, every drop of sweat on your brow, I can see and feel. And I’m not sure I like this attitude you’re giving me, mister-”

Cookie interrupted. “I’m not a mister. I don’t really define myself as EITHER gender, THANK YOU!”

The deep voice dropped his ominous tone. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Would you mind telling me what pronouns you prefer? Also just want you to know, several of my former staff are gender non-conforming, and I’m so proud of you for being so honest with yourself. You GO, Cookie Basil Masterson!” 

Cookie blushed, ignoring the chilling implication that he knew Cookie’s full name. “Aw, thank you. Well you know, I don't mind any pronouns. You can call me he, she, they, whatever is most comfortable. I just don’t really give a crap, you know?”

“TOTALLY! Ok, good to know. And….between you and me, Cookie isn’t like, your dead name is it? Because while I’m murdering or torturing you I want to make sure I know who you REALLY are, not just who society tells you to be.”

Cookie put a hand to his chest with a smile. “You know, that really means a lot to me. Thank you. I chose the name Cookie, so you can call me Cookie. I just felt it suited me, you know? And I really appreciate your allyship.”

“No problem, buddy. Hate just does nothing for the world you know? Anyway, I’m gonna need you to cut off your finger.”

“...what?”

“Yeah, you’re being defiant and refusing to play along with my game. So you know. Snip Snip. There's a box with a knife in the corner. You get to pick the finger, fun!”

A shiny black, featureless box knocked the typewriter off the table. An old brass key floated into the keyhole and turned, opening the box. In it was a giant rusty butcher’s knife. It was black with old blood. 

“Sorry, I didn’t clean it. I just get so busy with these murders, you know? I do have some sanitation wipes if you need some.”

But his gentle warning was falling on deaf ears. Cookie was pounding at the door, screaming his head off. “LET ME OUT! CAN SOMEONE HEAR ME?! MY NAME IS COOKIE MASTERSON AND I'M BEING HELD HERE AGAINST MY WILL! SOMEONE CALL THE COPS! SOMEONE! ANYONE!!!! HEEEEELP!”

He was silenced by a chillingly jovial and warm chuckle over the loudspeakers. “Oh, Cookie. Do you think I would play with you somewhere people can hear you? It’s just us. You and me. If I were you, I’d play along. Otherwise this game is gonna get…...messy.”

The corpses in the corner started to writhe. A woman’s corpse began to crawl out from on top of the writhing pile. She moaned as she reached for the hem of Cookie’s shirt. “Pllllaaaaaaaayyyyyyy”

Cookie whimpered. “Dammit! How did you know I was terrified of zombies!? I can’t even watch Shaun of the Dead for God’s sake!”

The deep voice cackled. “You’re losing your finger one way or another! Either you cut it off or Ester here is biting one off!” 

In a pathetic whimper, Cookie flailed. “Ok! Ok! I’ll cut off my finger!” In the blink of an eye the corpse pile quietly blinked back to the corner of the room. The typewriter also disappeared. It was only the box, and Cookie. 

A clock projected itself onto the wall in front of him. The deep voice commanded “30 seconds. GO.”  
Cookie looked at his outstretched right hand. The voice chuckled again. 

“Clever of you to use your non-dominant hand. I’d punish you for this normally, but I kinda like you. So go off! You have 10 seconds left. Pick a finger quickly! Or I’m taking ALL OF THEM”

Cookie decided on his pinky finger. With a sickening slicing motion, in 5 minutes the dull, bloody blade cut through. Cookie cradled his hand as he fell to the floor in pain, moaning. 

“Thank you for the finger! Gonna just….glue that on and…..there! Now I have 15 fingers! DID YOU HEAR THAT DAD?! I HAVE THE MOST FINGERS! DO YOU LOVE ME NOW?”

Cookie didn’t hear this over his own pained screaming. He writhed on the floor, pressing his forehead against the carpet. He held his bloodied hand close to his chest, staining his shirt and bootcut jeans with blood. A first aid kit materialized in front of him, as though it was beamed up on Star Trek. Not that Cookie would know. He’s not a Trekkie. He’s a cool dude that kisses all the other cool dudes. He haphazardly dressed the wound on his hand, holding in tears. Would he ever see his cats again? As he was dabbing the towel on the pool staining his shirt, he was lifted up in the air again and thrown out to a different hallway. 

“Wait, wasn’t this green before?”

The deep voice gasped. “Good memory! Speaking of memories-”

A clipboard floated above his face.

“What color was I- I mean….someone I sent who def wasn’t me, wearing on their adorable little uniform that they got off Dolls Kill? A) Purple B) Pink C) Blue or D) Black?”

Cookie chuckled. Finally, something he was good at. Random Trivia. He had a hard time holding the clipboard with his wrapped right hand, but he circled A and let go, watching the clipboard disappear. 

The deep voice whined. “Awwww, you got it right. Man. I hate it when they get it right. Ugh, FINE.” He lifted the now confident Cookie, dragging his smug posture across the hall before unceremoniously throwing him in the elevator. The doors to the elevator closed, revealing scribbled cries for help. 

The elevator ride was awkward. Silence passed, punctuated by an old big-band style music band playing over the tinny speakers. Cookie cleared his throat. “So. uh. How long you been doing this….murder...thing?”

The voice made a thinking sound. “Ummmmm….15 years I think? Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. I mean, when you’re having fun the time just flies by!” 

Cookie nodded and rubbed his head nervously. “Yeah, I know the feeling. I’ve been running a trivia game for I think...20 years now? Holy sh-..shoot. 20 years? Damn.”

The voice gasped. “You do trivia too? Oh. Em. Gee. I didn’t think I’d ever meet another trivia host! Isn’t it so fun when someone is SO confident they have the answer and then get it WRONG?”

Cookie tossed his head back and laughed, leaning against the wooden wall. “Yes! You see their self esteem just...fall out of their face! I always hear a little sad trombone going Wah wah waaaahhhh” He slapped his knee and doubled over laughing. The voice was laughing too. 

“Or-Or when you get two best friends or a couple or something, and one of them does really bad and the other person is so SMUG about being ‘the smart one’-”

Cookie finished his sentence at the same time as the voice spoke. “And they beat them in the second round!” Both voices laughed so hard they had a hard time breathing. Cookie wiped a tear from his eye and wheezed. “You can just...SEE the relationship crumble!”

“Right? IT’S SO FUN!”

“I joke that I keep divorce lawyers in business!”

“Oh em gee, that’s a good one!” A few minutes passed as they both let their infectious rolling giggles subside. 

The voice spoke as the doors opened. “Sigh, it’s a shame I have to keep torturing you. We probably could have been best friends.”

Cookie’s smile dropped. “You….you can let me go, you know. I could come over? I’d get pizza. We’d rent movies and...and we can share tips on trivia hosting.” there was a dry lump in his throat. His chest felt as though it was falling through his stomach.

The voice sounded melancholy. “No, Cookie. No. I have to keep killing. People can only escape if they’ve bested The Game. My family have been playing The Game for centuries now. I physically can’t stop or my family will rise out of the grave. It’s better this way.”

Cookie’s eyes widened as he realized his natural charm still couldn’t save him. “No, Wait, We can-” He was thrown out of the elevator and dragged kicking and screaming into another dimly lit room. There was a box with holes in it. The flap on the side opened. The voice demanded “Get in.” 

Cookie stuck his hand through the hole on the right-hand corner. To his surprise, the hole could be expanded. In a panic, he shoved his head in, before crawling through it. The holw was made of velvet, and was the size of a small cave. If the threat of death wasn’t imminent, he would consider this a wonderful place to relax when he was overstimulated. The deep voice somehow sounded like it was in his ears, despite not being anywhere near it. 

“Ok, so I borrowed this box from my cousin Alphonso. He LOOOVED magic tricks. Too much, it turns out. Anyway this was his favorite trick, he’d put 12 swords in all of the holes, and the person inside would be unharmed! Isn’t that fun? Unfortunately he did it wrong once when he was testing it out. It’s possible he haunts it. Say Hi if you see him.”

12 swords?! Cookie began to hyperventilate. This is it. This is how I die! I’m gonna die in a FRIGGIN BOX!!! 

“We had to sell 11 of his swords to pay for the extension on our murder basement, so we only have one left. And look who it is! It’s Ester! She wants to play!”

Cookie screamed.

“Go ahead, Ester, put a sword through the box!” 

Cookie closed his eyes and tucked his body to be as small as possible. He heard the sword fumble around the box, and the sharp sound of it going into a hole….

Then nothing happened.

Cookie wondered if maybe he died and getting shoved through with a sword was somehow painless?

Ester moaned, “Ta-daaaaaaa.” and the host clapped. “Well, you didn’t manage to kill them, but maybe next time! In fact, let’s try right now!”

Cookie didn’t have time to react before he found himself in a green wallpapered….room? Hallway? It was long, longer than the building looked to be. He turned around, and only saw a black abyss. 

Music filled the loudspeakers, but also he felt like the tense violin music came from inside his chest somehow. 

“Now here’s your chance to win your freedom. I told you I was fair! You’re going to run, and run, and run, and run, and run, and run, and run, and keep running. If you can make it to the end without passing out...you’ll get to leave alive! ….and with 100 dollars and a certificate to Applebees.” 

Cookie began breathing through his nose, trying to regulate his breathing. “What’s the time limit? What’s the catch?”

The voice chuckled. “No time limit. Just run. Right. NOW”

Without any prompting, Cookie ran. His chunky sneakers made a slapping sound every time his foot hit the tastefully carpeted floor. He could feel his thighs chafe horribly under his thick jeans. He focused on his breathing, determined to keep enough stamina to make it out the door.   
The hair on his neck began to prickle, and he thought he saw something run behind him.

“Oh sorry, you asked what the catch was, right?” The voice asked. “See, Ester wants to win her freedom too. If she passes you, she comes back to life, and YOU end up the zombie!” 

Cookie involuntarily starting running faster. The voice taunted him. “Ooohhh she’s catching up! Don’t look now, but I think she’s right behind you!” Cookie’s heart almost beat out of his chest. He could feel his feet lose blood as Ester came closer. The skin around his shins began to peel with every inhale Ester took. The door outside was in sight. Behind Ester was some kind of screaming darkness. 

The little bit of midriff that would show as Cookie’s pants slipped showed his skin becoming blackened and withered. He could feel himself dying as he leaped through the door. There was an ear piercing scream as Ester reached out from the darkness, crying out in agony. Behind him, the building imploded, sinking deep under the dirt. He made it.

Cookie was safe. 

Not that he felt safe. From then on he demanded an intern hold him and tuck him to bed every show. In his worst nightmares he can still hear the deep cackle behind him.


End file.
